29. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
I don’t go back to the cottage that night.
Allana catches me at the back door before I can slip away. She’s in her pajamas - the ones with the little horses on them - hair still damp from her bath. That stuffed horse is clutched against her chest like a lifeline.
“Mommy, please stay.”
Her voice wobbles. That particular tremor that five-year-olds get when they’re trying very hard to be brave and failing.
“I don’t like it when you sleep far away. What if you get sick again and I can’t find you?”
My heart cracks right down the middle.
“Baby, I’m not sick anymore-”
“But what if you are?” Her lower lip trembles. Her eyes are too big in her small face - Lucas’s eyes, dark and deep and impossible to refuse. “Rosa said you were in the cottage because you needed rest, but the cottage is so far, and what if something happens and nobody knows?”
I crouch down to her level, ignoring the protest from my leg. The scar tissue pulls. I don’t care.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“You fell off Stella.” Her voice goes small and scared. “Something happened then.”
She’s right. She’s absolutely right, and I don’t know what to say.
“Please, Mommy.” She reaches for me, her tiny hand finding mine. “Just tonight. Sleep in the house where I can check on you.”
I look at this perfect, terrified little girl.
This child who’s spent months watching her parents fall apart, who drew pictures of her father crying, who’s been tucked in by a stranger wearing her mother’s clothes.
She’s been through more upheaval in the past few months than most children face in years.
How could I ever say no to her?
“Okay, sweetheart.” I pull her into my arms, breathe in her strawberry shampoo. “Okay. I’ll stay tonight.”
She sags against me with relief, her whole small body going boneless.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Rosa appears in the hallway, a knowing look on her weathered face. She doesn’t say anything - just takes Allana’s hand and leads her toward the stairs.
“I’ll get her to bed, Mrs. Delilah. The guest room is made up fresh.”
I watch them go. Allana looks back twice over her shoulder, making sure I’m still there.
I tell myself it’s just for tonight. Just for her.
It has nothing to do with the way Lucas’s hands felt between my thighs. Nothing to do with his mouth on my neck, or the way I came apart against his palm while the wind stole my cries.
Nothing to do with any of that.
I glance back toward the cottage, half-visible through the kitchen window. The divorce papers are still on the table there. Unsigned. The pen sitting right next to them like it’s been waiting patiently for me to make up my mind.
I turn back around and walk up the stairs.
Allana’s room glows soft and pink in the lamplight. I tuck her in, press kisses to her forehead and cheeks and the tip of her nose until she giggles. Read her a story about a horse who learns to jump over the moon. Stay until her breathing goes slow and even.
I close her door quietly and turn around.
Lucas is standing in the hallway.
He’s changed out of his riding clothes. Fresh shirt, the white cotton clinging to shoulders still damp from a quick shower. His hair is wet and tousled, and his feet are bare on the hardwood floor.
There’s something vulnerable about that - this man who runs an empire, standing in his own hallway without shoes, watching me like I might disappear.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” he says.
“I wasn’t either.”
We stand there. Five feet apart. Close enough that I can smell the clean soap on his skin, the cedar underneath. Close enough that my body remembers exactly what his felt like against mine.
The silence stretches. Fills with everything we haven’t said.
“Delilah-”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t apologize again. I can’t hear another apology tonight.”
“Then what can I do?”
The question hangs in the air. Honest. Desperate.
I should tell him to give me space. I should go to the guest room and lock the door and process everything that happened on that horse without him standing here looking at me like I hold his entire world in my hands.
He clears his throat. Something shifts in his expression - hesitant, hopeful.
“You told me there was hope,” he says quietly. “For us. In Houston.”
I cross my arms. “And I also told you I haven’t forgiven you.”
“I know.” He takes a breath. “But after everything we’ve been through - we’ve exposed Aimie, survived Houston, gotten Storm healthy again…” He runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing in awkward spikes. “Haven’t I earned at least some redemption?”
I pretend to consider it. Tilt my head like I’m doing complicated math.
“Hmm. Maybe ten percent.”
“Ten percent?” He actually looks wounded. “That’s it? After all those heart-shaped waffles?”
“The first batch was salty.”
“I was nervous!”
“And you also put salt in the coffee that one time.”
“That was an accident, and you know it.” But he’s fighting a smile now.
I feel my own lips twitching. “Fine. Twelve percent.”
“I’ll take it.” He steps closer, his eyes suddenly serious again. The humor drains away, replaced by something raw and urgent. “Please. Let me take you out. On a date. A real one.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“A date. You and me. Somewhere that isn’t this house, where we’re not just co-parents navigating a disaster.” His voice softens. “Let me take you somewhere and remind you why you married me in the first place. Before I ruined everything.”
Something loosens in my chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But I get to pick the day.”
“Any day. Any time.” He nods immediately, eager. “My schedule is clear for you.”
“And no business talk.”
“Not a single word about investors or contracts.”
“And you’re paying.”
He laughs - a real laugh, surprised out of him. It warms something in me that I’ve been keeping cold. “I would hope so.”
I study him for a moment. This man who’s trying so hard. Who’s standing barefoot in his own hallway, asking his wife on a date like a nervous teenager.
“Fine,” I say. “One date.”
His whole face transforms. Hope, bright and terrified.
“Now I’m going to bed,” I tell him. “Guest room. Alone.”
“Of course.” He nods, and I can see what it costs him to not reach for me. His hands twitch at his sides. “Can I - can I walk you there?”
It’s such a small thing. Such a nothing request.
“Yes,” I say. “You can walk me there.”
We walk down the hall side by side. The house is dark and quiet around us - Rosa in her room, Allana sleeping, the old wood creaking beneath our feet. At the guest room door, he stops.
“Goodnight, Delilah.”
“Goodnight, Lucas.”
I start to open the door. Then stop.
“Make me breakfast tomorrow?” I say, not turning around. “And try to put less salt and more sugar this time.”
I don’t see his face. But I hear the smile in his voice.
“Every day,” he says. “For as long as you want.”
I close the door between us and lean against it, my heart pounding.
It’s not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it’s something.